Sometimes she is sweetest when the morning is new and drifting over the land like the clumsy run of egg yolk. Sometimes she is sweetest when the moon is full and heavy and drunk on its dark, heady night wine. Sometimes, she is not sweet at all, but he calls her that anyway. She is best when she is ripe, fiercely happy and flighty and still somewhat girlish for all that she is woman, and they make quite a pair (since these days he feels like half a man).

He thinks of the world before and after and in between, with the wolf's howl and the wolf's sharpness and wolf's smell, and he can't picture her in it, soft and smooth and spread beneath him with her hands fisting his hair and her mouth hard against his, but he wants to consume her all the same. (/And there is nothing bad about that/, she murmurs against his ear, /if she gets to have him all/.)

Link breathes in the scent of twilight and breaths out the scent of day.